


bǎobèi

by hobal_hyung



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drabble, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, resident art hos gyuhao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobal_hyung/pseuds/hobal_hyung
Summary: “Want anything for dinner?” Mingyu asks, kicking his slides off, “What will cheer you up?”“Cabernet sauvignon,” Minghao mutters, stalking off down the hall.





	bǎobèi

As soon as the car is in park and the engine is cut, Minghao hunches over the wheel, eyes sliding shut and soaking in the sound of quiet rain skittering down on the roof of his yellow Volkswagen; just for a moment, just long enough to gather his thoughts and steel himself for the run from the car to the door.

He’s just... relieved it’s the weekend, though he really wishes it weren’t raining. Born in autumn but a summer baby at heart, he prefers dry heat over cold winds, iced coffee over hot tea, and sleeveless shirts over the thick wool socks he’s wearing now.

But this weather feels better, much more appropriate for his mood, for his tired bones and wounded ego. He’d been having _one of those days _for about a week or two now. Between having lost his airpods last Thursday and forgetting to study for an art history midterm on Tuesday, and then spending a couple weeks holed up in the studio working on his assignment only for his classmates to imply that his work looked like “underworked outsider art” during their Friday critique. So it was only fitting that of course dense, dark storm clouds would roll in just in time for his weekend and to top it all off, he didn't even have an umbrella. 

He looks over at the canvas sitting in the passenger seat; they had been assigned to produce something that contrasted their usual style. So Minghao being an abstract expressionist looked outside himself and drew inspiration from Mingyu, whose extroversion and warmth contrasted Minghao’s dark palette and introspective style; resulting in a mixed media assemblage of his own photos layered with splatters of canary yellows and flaxen golds and delicate patterning in light blues and greys.

He titled it “bǎobèi” because the golden yellows reminded Minghao of treasure and the blues of the ocean on their Jeju trip where they did nothing but lie around on the rocky beach drinking and listening to the lo-fi jazz-hop radio, the one with the anime girl studying, while he taught Mingyu what his name in Minghao’s phone meant and other terms of endearment in his mother tongue.

The painting was a complete departure from the comfort zone he’d spent so much time fine tuning in his usual body of work over the years; a challenge but one that he felt like he’d not only met but exceeded. So it quite frankly hurt when when the feedback was negative, he’d been so excited to bring it home and show Mingyu until this afternoon.

“Ah, stupid,” He mutters to himself, letting his head fall back on the headrest again as his eyes started to sting and threaten tears. The transition from summer break to the fall semester has always been rough for Minghao, going from making art for himself because it makes him happy to making art for grades. The first critique of the year was always the hardest though he had hoped that by third year it would get easier, but it seems that no matter how many positive critiques he gets all it takes is even one slightly negative one to knock his confidence back down, especially on a personal piece.

A sudden light tap on the window startles him and he looks up to find Mingyu beaming down at him from outside the door, an umbrella in one hand and waving excitedly with the other. Minghao sniffles and rolls the window down.

“Hey babe!” Mingyu greets, voice light, leaning down to kiss Minghao’s forehead, “You’ve been out here awhile, you coming in?”

Minghao rubs at his eyes, relieved to see Mingyu there waiting for him in the rain under his big umbrella in cozy sweats and slides; outside is dark and gloomy but the highlighter yellow umbrella and Mingyu’s smile reflect what little light is left and Minghao feels like he has to squint just to look at him.

“How long were you watching me?” Minghao asks, leaning over to gather his phone and things.

“Since you parked, I was waiting for you to get home since you didn’t have an umbrella when you left this morning,” Mingyu explains, popping open the car door for Minghao.

“You were waiting for me?”

“Yeah, didn’t want you to get wet.”

“Wow, thanks babe.”

Mingyu just shrugs, like it’s not a big deal to wait around to escort someone inside because they forgot their own umbrella, even if his own socks get wet standing in the rain waiting for them to get out of the car. Minghao smiles despite himself at Mingyu, endlessly kind and considerate with his hand outstretched patiently to help Minghao carry his stuff. Minghao hands over his bag to Mingyu before shimmying out of his own jacket, tossing it over his painting so water wouldn’t touch it and so that he wouldn’t have to look at it for now.

“Oh! Is that what you’ve been working on?” Mingyu asks, pulling at the jacket to peek underneath it, “Looks good!”

Minghao pulls it more tightly to his chest, “Looks like something that belongs in the kiln.”

Mingyu frowns, a little wounded before the lightbulb going off in his mind, “Crits were today, weren't they?”

“Yup.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Mingyu asks, closing the car door and throwing his arm around Minghao’s shoulders so that the yellow umbrella covers him fully.

“Nope!”

Mingyu rubs Minghao’s shoulder, sympathetic and soft, kissing the side of Minghao’s face and leading him towards their walk-up.

Mingyu’s all-too familiar with crits, having been with Minghao through many over the years and having his own scheduled for next Wednesday where his portfolio of croquis’ and garment flats will be rifled through, his toile dissected like a frog by his profs and classmates. It hangs over his head like another storm on the horizon but his crits are nothing like Minghao’s; his are constructive because his art is functional, with strict rules and basic design principles while Minghao’s art is subjective, deeply personal. So Mingyu can only imagine how frustrating it is to spend weeks pouring yourself into a painting only to have someone call it rudimentary or whatever it is fine arts majors say.

Mingyu lets Minghao go in first, shaking the water off the umbrella before closing it and the door behind him. He watches Minghao toe his boots off and set his painting down against the nearby wall, pointedly leaving the jacket draped over it.

“Want anything for dinner?” Mingyu asks, kicking his slides off, “What will cheer you up?”

“Cabernet sauvignon,” Minghao mutters, stalking off down the hall.

Mingyu laughs into his hand and waits until he hears the door click shut before walking over to the canvas on the floor and lifting the jacket up off of it, a quiet little wow tumbles out of his mouth and he looks over his shoulder at their bedroom door for fear that Minghao hears him snooping, praying that the thunder outside is loud enough to cover it up.

He lacks the background to describe it technically, all he knows is that he can _feel_ the serotnin surging in his system just from looking at the painting; overflowing with joy and energy, radiating with warm yellows and calm blues. He leans in closer to get a better look at the familiar black and white photos collaged in underneath thick layers of paint, runs his fingertips feather light along the textured knifework even though he knows he's not supposed to touch the art, the effort and care evident which each brushstroke, nothing less than he'd expect from Minghao.

He can’t find a single negative thing to say about it, though he knows Minghao will just say he’s biased. He takes his phone out to snap a picture of the painting, just in case Minghao was serious about throwing it in a kiln, before carefully laying the jacket back down and heading into the kitchen.

When Minghao emerges from their bedroom, waiting for him is an open bottle of cab and two glasses on the coffee table along with Mingyu curled up on the couch with his phone, trying to hide his goofy smile. Guilty.

“You looked at it didn’t you?” Minghao sighs, treading closer to take his glass of wine, sipping it a little too much, too fast.

“Yes,” Mingyu admits, honest to a fault, “But it’s really good ‘Hao, like, _really_ good. And beautiful. It makes me feel like I’m Jeju all over again.”

“Thanks,” Minghao stares at the last sips of wine left in the bottom of his glass, his face already feels warm from the alcohol and the compliment.

“You want to talk about it now?”

“Not really,” He’d be lying if he said Mingyu’s praise didn’t outweigh his classmates, relieved that Mingyu just gets it even he always does; but Minghao still pouts because he wants to sulk anyways, wants to lick his wounds, but most of all he really just wants Mingyu to fuss over him.

“Okay, then we don’t have to,” Mingyu smiles softly up at him before he tugs on his sleeve and Minghao has barely enough time to set his glass down before he’s dragged down onto the couch with Mingyu.

“‘Kay,” Minghao mumbles, letting himself be pulled back by Mingyu’s arms around his waist into his chest. Minghao twists his face until his cheek lies flat on Mingyu’s shoulder so that he’s looking up and out of the window behind the couch; alternating between watching the lightning flicker and flash across the sky and closing his eyes to focus on the rhythmic rise and fall of Mingyu’s chest.

Mingyu plays with the soft, dark hair at the back of Minghao’s neck, every once in awhile digging a knuckle into a tendon, willing the tension away by force and kissing it better whenever Minghao hisses. Minghao plays his critique over in his head, absentmindedly playing with the hand around his hip, running his fingertips along the lines in Mingyu’s palm and twisting the ring on Mingyu’s finger, the one that matches his own.

It’s calming, healing even, lying there wrapped up in Mingyu; all he needed to decompress and ground himself again was the silence aside from the sound of their breathing, just barely audible in between each roll of thunder outside, and the sound of Mingyu mumbling under his breath.

Minghao peers up, nose bumping Mingyu’s chin, “Did you say something?”

“Nah, sorry, just trying to figure out how far away the storm is,” Mingyu says.

“You can do that?” Minghao sits up further and pours more wine into his glass, “How?”

“Yeah, you’ve never done that? You wait for lightning and then you count the seconds until there’s thunder, the more time between the lighting and thunder the further away it is,” Just then a particularly loud thunder rumbles through the house, so loud that Minghao swears he can feel it rattle his bones and he jumps. Mingyu dissolves into giggles, eyes bright as he talks, “So that was ten seconds, so like two miles away.”

Mingyu wiggles out from underneath Minghao, kneeling on the couch and pressing his face against the window; Minghao copies the movement, shoulder to shoulder with his wine glass in hand, “Where’d you learn that?”

“My mom taught me that when I was little... ah, there!” Mingyu taps his finger on the window when the next jagged streak of lightning cuts through the clouds. Minghao doesn’t comment on the smudge Mingyu’s hand leaves on the glass, just drops his head onto his shoulder and counts quietly along with him. They only make it to thirteen before the next boom of thunder. The next time they make it to fifteen, seventeen. Then eventually twenty.

“So how far is that?”

“It’s five seconds per mile so it’s about four miles away. It’ll probably be over soon,” Mingyu assures him.

“Cool,” Minghao smiles, setting his empty glass down and lying back onto the couch, the alcohol in his system melting him into the cushions.

“What about you?” Mingyu asks, wedging himself in the space between Minghao’s side and the couch, knocking the air out of Minghao as he throws an arm and a leg over top of him like a husky who thinks he’s a lap dog. It's a comforting sort of weight. 

“What about me?”

“Your little storm almost over too?”

Minghao buries his nose into Mingyu’s hair, breathes in the scent of pear and aloe. For a few minutes he’d forgotten why he was feeling moody in the first place, forgotten that a world exists outside their quiet little apartment, and he’s grateful for it, grateful for Mingyu, “Yeah, a few more miles and I’ll be good.”

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt from carina: silence, the color yellow, and matching rings. 
> 
> baobei means treasure, darling, and baby of which mingyu is all three of those things so naturally hao saved him as baobei in his contacts. 
> 
> [find me here](https://twitter.com/hobal_hyung)


End file.
